


The Game

by bactaqueen



Category: AFI
Genre: Baseball, Friends and Lovers, M/M, reposted from AFIslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam takes Davey to a baseball game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people or events is entirely coincidental. SBC Park, the San Francisco Giants, and the Pittsburgh Pirates are all copyright Major League Baseball. No profit is made from this, and no infringement is intended.
> 
> Author's Note: Originally dedicated to Iphigeneia. This fic was completed September 2005.

The clouds that hung threateningly over the Bay didn’t keep the fans away from SBC Park and the mid-day game between the San Francisco Giants and the visiting Pittsburgh Pirates. The crowd was smaller than Davey had expected, but he wasn’t going to complain; he and Adam had great seats with no immediate neighbors and a clear view of the field. The air was ripe with the scents of sea, fried foods, and beer. Children screamed over the pounding of music from the oversized speakers, and mingled with that noise was the din of five thousand conversations.   
  
Davey slouched in his seat and braced one boot on the back of the green plastic chair in front of him. He scanned the field, then turned his attention to the lanky man sprawled at his right. Adam munched happily on his chips, eyes trained on the field until he sensed Davey’s gaze. He wiped the corners of his mouth with thumb and forefinger and ducked his head as he smiled shyly at Davey.  
  
“You really don’t care what you eat, do you?” Davey teased, expression one of exaggerated reprimand.  
  
A broader, happier smile replaced the shyness, and Adam lifted his head. “Not really, no,” he agreed. He offered the plastic dish salsa-first to Davey. “Want some?”   
  
Davey eyed the yellow chips and the red salsa. The chips looked like regular corn chips, and there were little chunks of white and green in the salsa, but… “What’s in it?”  
  
“No idea,” Adam said cheerfully. He slid down and spread his knees wider. He nudged Davey with his elbow and edged the food closer. “Come on, Dave. Eight and a half innings to go. You’re gonna need your strength.”  
  
Tonguing his lip ring, Davey considered the temptation set before him. It had been such a long time since he’d seen Adam so relaxed and happy; it had been a while since he’d felt like this himself, and  _with_  Adam, no less. Davey decided to indulge. It was nothing a few extra hours in the gym couldn’t fix, after all. He slumped in his chair, as if to hide himself from possible prying eyes, and held his hand out.  
  
With a grin, Adam surrendered the chips, then sat up and looked around. He found the kid carrying the concession tray and he stood. As he fished his wallet out of his back pocket, he glanced back at Davey. “You want anything else?”  
  
Fuck the extra few hours in the gym. Davey looked up at Adam and decided that a whole extra week would be more than worth it. Deadpan, he said, “Pretzel, churro, snocone, and water. Please.” Davey blinked, then added, “And can we get some cotton candy, too?”  
  
Laughing, Adam pulled a few bills out of his wallet. “Do you mind driving home? I was going to get a beer.”  
  
Davey’s smile was small and devious. “I knew it! Of course you didn’t invite me just out of the goodness of your heart.”  
  
Adam flashed a grin. “Someone’s gotta take care of me,  _Mom_.”  
  
With a laugh, Davey waved his hand, dismissing Adam to buy their food. He went back to his chips and watched as Adam paid for the snacks. Even his body language as he stood ordering and chatting with the concession boy was easier than Davey had seen it in a year. Maybe there’d been too much stress lately, and maybe that was taking its toll on Adam. Maybe this day at the ball park was exactly what he needed.   
  
When the concession boy had gone, Adam dropped into his seat and foisted the pretzel and churro off on Davey, then liberated what remained of his chips. “Pig,” he teased.  
  
Davey chuckled and shook his head. Beside him, Adam settled again into his seat, slouching and munching, eyes on the field and the players. Uninterested in the game for the game, Davey let his gaze roam over the people in the stands and the men on the field, then up to the lights at the tops of the poles positioned strategically at the edges of the park. He watched the scoreboard and tried to decipher the arrangement of numbers and abbreviations, but found himself distracted by the large Coke bottle for what seemed like too long.   
  
Finally, he looked back at the field. The man at bat played for the Pirates; Davey recognized the logo on the front of the black jersey. The man crouched behind him and the man on the pitcher’s mound played for San Francisco. Davey gathered that the first inning was over, and frowned as he tried to determine just what was going on. Movement in the outfield caught his eye, and Davey glanced away from the batter to see the man in left field stand up from where he’d been resting with his hands on his knees. Whatever the man was looking at was what Davey missed, and the dull roar of the pleased crowd made him shift his attention back to home plate.  
  
Adam clapped idly.  
  
Frowning, Davey turned to Adam. “What just happened?”  
  
The fake cheese that had come with Davey’s pretzel was in a little plastic cup; Adam poured the cheese over his chips and crushed the cup before he let it fall. Before answering, he sucked fake cheese off his fingers and smiled. “He struck out.”  
  
Davey smirked. “Something you’d know about.”  
  
Adam shot Davey a nasty look, but a slow smile curved his lips. “Shut up,” he said, without venom.  
  
On the field, the players retreated to their respective dugouts. Davey watched them go and munched thoughtfully, then gestured to the field and asked Adam, “Wanna try explaining this business to me again?”  
  
From behind the plastic rim of his beer cup, Adam countered, “What do you want to know?”  
  
Davey frowned briefly at his pretzel, wondering that something so expensive could be so bland, then remembered that Adam had asked him a question. He shrugged. “What do I need to know?”  
  
Adam snorted derisively. “Pitching.”  
  
Davey pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes at the field. Players had switched sides; a man in gray had stepped up to home plate. He watched as the Pirate threw the ball and the Giant swung the bat around. He anticipated the  _crack_  of wood connecting with leather, but it never came. Instead, the ball was swallowed up by the catcher’s mitt, and the umpire behind home made a vaguely obscene gesture toward the first base seats.  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“What?” Adam looked toward where Davey was pointing.   
  
“The umpire. What’s he doing with his hands?”  
  
Around a mouthful of cheese-covered corn chips, Adam said, “Calling the game. He’s giving signs for balls—”  
  
Davey snickered.  
  
Adam rolled his eyes and wiped at his lips with the back of his hand. “And strikes.” He sighed. “Not everything is about sex, Dave.”  
  
Davey gaped at his friend. “Oh, come on! Men in tight pants wearing cups and swinging long sticks at balls?” He arched a brow. “Are you kidding me?”  
  
Unable to help himself, Adam laughed and shook his head.   
  
Smiling, Davey sat back. “So, what’s the difference, exactly?”  
  
Adam made a thoughtful noise. “Strikes are in the strike zone,” he said. His eyes followed the pitcher’s movement and the release of the ball, then turned and met Davey’s gaze. He pointed to the field. “Watch,” he said quietly. “I’ll show you.”  
  
After a brief hesitation, Davey faced the field.  
  
Low, Adam’s voice rumbled, “Keep your eyes on the ball.”  
  
There was more in those words than simple instruction, and an old memory tickled the edges of Davey’s mind. He wanted to ask if Adam ever thought of… but he didn’t have the courage to bring it up. So, dutifully, Davey turned his attention to the field, and once again, he watched the pitch. When the batter made no move to swing and the ball had been folded into the catcher’s mitt, he asked, “What was that?”  
  
“A ball.” Adam sipped his beer.  
  
Davey frowned. “How?”  
  
“It was high and outside,” came the simple explanation.  
  
Slowly, Davey blinked, then shook his head. “Too fast, Adam.”  
  
Adam laughed lightly. “Do you know where the strike zone is?”  
  
Davey shot him a sharp look. “Can you tell the difference between MAC and Maybelline?”  
  
Mirth danced in Adam’s eyes. “Point taken.” He nodded toward the field again. “Watch.”  
  
And he did. Davey’s eyes roamed over the familiar face of his oldest and closest friend, and he wondered how things had ever gotten to the point where he considered the ease they shared to be something out of the ordinary.   
  
“See that?”  
  
“Sure,” Davey said quietly.  
  
Adam glanced at Davey. There was something in his eyes, some dark shyness Davey hadn’t seen in a long time. Adam looked away again. “I’m not the game, Dave.”  
  
A smile curved Davey’s lips, and he turned back to the field, happy to have seen back into the Adam he’d once known. “The strike zone,” he prompted.  
  
“It’s an invisible box between the umpire’s shoulders and knees when he’s crouched a little. It’s about even with the catcher’s face and the batter’s belly.” Adam paused to sip his beer. “The ball has to pass through it to be a strike.”  
  
Davey frowned. “Seems kind of subjective.”  
  
Adam nodded agreement. “That’s part of the game.” He was quiet for a moment. “A big part of the game,” he added.  
  
A few pitches were thrown as silence extended between Davey and Adam. As he finished off his pretzel and started work on his churro, Davey watched the pitcher, the batter, the catcher, and the umpire closely. He noticed a correlation between where the ball was thrown, the hand gestures the umpire made, and the number that lit up on the scoreboard at the end of the field.  
  
Finally, Davey eyed the boxes marked “balls” and “strikes,” and decided that the numbers 3 and 2 meant a full count. “We want a ball, don’t we?” he said.  
  
Adam followed Davey’s gaze, then turned his attention back to the field. “If he doesn’t hit the ball, yeah,” he agreed. “We want him on base. Maybe he could steal second.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“So he can get closer to third.” Adam made it sound like the most obvious thing in the world.  
  
“Which gets him closer to home,” Davey suggested  
  
“And an earned run,” Adam finished.  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
Adam smiled at the field behind the rim of his beer cup. “It’s what gives us the score.”  
  
“Oh,” Davey murmured. He focused his attention on the place between the batter’s elbows and thighs that seemed to encompass the strike zone. A pitch shot straight through the zone and hit the catcher’s mitt hard. Davey whispered, “Strike?”  
  
Beside him, Adam tensed. “Huh?”  
  
The umpire made the gesture Davey had come to associate with strikes, and he smirked. “I said strike.”  
  
Pride twisted Adam’s mouth. “I knew you’d learn.”  
  
Davey met Adam’s eyes as the memory of another learning session rose in his mind. He pushed it down and looked away. He thought he’d seen the same awareness of the memory in Adam, and that made him wonder. “I have a good teacher,” Davey said simply.  
  
Adam said nothing, only drank his beer sip by sip and watched the game. Davey leaned back and let his eyes move around the bases or to the outfield before he focused on home plate and the pitcher’s mound. He began work on his snocone and rested his temple on Adam’s shoulder out of habit. It was only when Adam stiffened that he realized it might have been strange. He should have sat up, and he knew it, but he didn’t. Times to be close to Adam were too rare.  
  
The rest of the second inning passed with silence between them. Adam finished his beer but didn’t look around for the concession boy to get another. He simply sat, and watched, and eventually relaxed under Davey’s touch.  
  
At the end of the third inning, Davey wondered aloud, “So, what happens if someone actually hits the ball?”  
  
Adam started, dislodging Davey, and an explosive laugh brought with it an exclamation of “Davey!” as he looked around.  
  
Davey followed Adam’s gaze and found that their neighbors were giving him dirty looks. He slumped in his seat, ducking his head, and whispered to Adam, “Well?”  
  
Smiling, Adam slipped down until his face was level with Davey’s. He started quietly, “It depends on how. A home run is the goal. If they foul it—hit it and it falls behind the first or third base-lines—it’s a strike, unless they already have two strikes, then it’s nothing. If they hit it and someone catches it before it hits the ground, it’s an automatic out.”  
  
“Oh.” Davey watched as the batter swung and missed. He sighed. “How can you watch this? I mean, they’re not  _doing_  anything.” His low voice was thoughtful as he said, “This is…” and trailed off, trying to come up with words that would convey what he meant, but not insult Adam.  
  
“Boring?” Adam suggested.  
  
Davey bowed his head, feeling a little guilty. He knew Adam loved this game and this team, and he’d never understood the appeal. That didn’t mean he couldn’t at least pretend to care. “Yeah,” he whispered sheepishly. He knew there were things he did that Adam didn’t get and didn’t like, but that never stopped him.  
  
Idly, Adam nodded. “That’s why. I can sit here and enjoy the weather and the game, and there’s no stress. No one wants anything, no one expects anything.” Adam shrugged. “It’s nice,” he finished quietly.  
  
Frowning, Davey stared down at his fingers, then looked over at Adam’s hand on the armrest between them. They were so different, and always had been, though it had been easier to pretend they were more similar when they were younger. Davey knew if it weren’t for Adam beside him, he’d be going out of his mind from the boredom of simply  _sitting_. Adam, though, was calm, shoulders back and legs sprawled, eyes on the game. He seemed content.   
  
A thought occurred to Davey. “Is this where you disappear to?”  
  
Adam closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He looked again at the field and admitted, “Sometimes, in the summertime, yes.”  
  
Davey looked up at the cloud-covered sky and worried absently about rain, then glanced at the American pastime playing out before him, and finally turned his eyes on his oldest friend, who looked suddenly so sad and pensive. Adam turned to him, and there were pleas in his eyes. Davey smiled. He never had been very good at denying Adam, even if the idea wasn’t one he understood. He rested his head on Adam’s shoulder.  
  
“You’re not going to ask to leave?” Surprise colored Adam’s voice.  
  
“Someone has to drive you home,” Davey teased, smiling toward the field and meaning it for Adam. “And who knows? Maybe someone will hit the ball.”

***

  
  
Companionable silence had fallen between them. After the seventh inning stretch and the park-wide sing-along of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” Davey had asked no questions, managing instead to understand the game on his own. He didn’t have a firm grasp of the finer points, but he noticed trends in batting and pitching.   
  
Now, in the bottom of the ninth with no men on base, two outs, and two strikes, he eyed the scoreboard and said to Adam, “I have a question.”  
  
Adam had bought popcorn from one of the vendors. He shoved a handful of the stale, buttery snack into his mouth before he mumbled, “What’s that?”  
  
“What happens if—?”  
  
As Davey watched, the man in gray standing over home plate swung wildly at the low pitch. The umpire called a strike, and the Giant lowered his bat and stepped back.  
  
“That happens,” Davey finished.  
  
“Tenth inning.” Adam wiped his hand down the side of his jeans.  
  
Davey frowned at the field. “How many innings are there?”  
  
Adam crumpled the popcorn bag and let it fall to the concrete with the rest of their mess. “As many as they need for someone to score.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
With a shrug, Adam explained, “The playoffs depend on it.”  
  
“Oh.” Davey shifted in his seat, not the least bit encouraged by the prospect of sitting through another nine innings. He looked at the clock on the small scoreboard beneath the left-field second level, and he wondered why anyone would put up with a game so fluid in its rules.   
  
Adam sighed. “Dave?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“We could stop and get something to eat on the way home.” There was a sad smile in his voice when he asked, “You busy tonight?”  
  
Surprised, Davey turned to face Adam. He had plans, yes. Even though it was a Wednesday, there were parties to make appearances at, people to see, cheeks to kiss, fun to be had. A new club had opened up, and Davey had been asked to guest-DJ a set. A friend had invited him to another club, just to dance. But as he regarded Adam, Davey changed his mind. There would always be parties and people he didn’t know. He offered a small smile. “I think I just got a date.”  
  
The sad smile on Adam’s face became something less forlorn. “Let’s go.”

***

  
  
Adam’s house smelled faintly of tobacco and warm wood. Davey toed off his boots and left his bag on the floor beside them in the foyer, then dropped Adam’s keys on the table against the wall. He made sure the door was locked before he followed Adam into the living room, where the other man set the food on the low coffee table, snatched up the fat black remote, and threw himself on the couch.  
  
“Highlights are on,” he said, by way of explanation.  
  
Amused, Davey dropped to the couch and leaned forward to retrieve one of the Styrofoam containers dinner was in. The first one he opened wasn’t his, and he left the top up as he slid it over toward Adam. “If you weren’t a drummer, you’d be a sportscaster, wouldn’t you?” Davey dug a plastic fork out of the bag and settled in, dinner balanced on one upturned hand. He picked at his food with the fork, eyes down, aware of the highlights, but not wanting to watch a rehash of the game. Sitting through the live one was enough. He glanced at Adam when his friend didn’t speak.  
  
Adam’s smile was wistful as the pitching highlights rolled, but he didn’t speak until the end of the segment. “Hey, Dave? You wanna play catch?”  
  
Davey made a face, but froze when Adam’s eyes bored into his, then dropped to trace the shape of his lips before they lifted again. Understanding hit Davey. “Oh.” He searched Adam’s face, seeing the man who was so much different from the boy he’d known. And Davey smiled. “Sure, Adam. Let’s play catch.”  
  
Adam took Davey’s food and closed the lid, then set it on the coffee table. He wrapped one hand around Davey’s wrist and stood, taking his friend with him. Sports news played quietly to an empty room as Adam led Davey down the hall and into the shadowed bedroom.   
  
Rain pattered against the window, and Davey let it distract him for a moment. Then Adam’s hands were at his waist, warm against his skin under the shirt, and he was stripping Davey slowly, fingers rediscovering the body he’d once known. Davey closed his eyes. He’d missed this, of course. He’d missed the way Adam treated him, the way Adam touched him, and he’d missed returning those touches. When Adam allowed it, Davey returned the favor, pulling the black t-shirt up and pushing away the jeans and boxers.   
  
Davey looked up into Adam’s face as Adam looked down at their bodies. He saw muted wonder in Adam’s eyes, and it never failed to make him glad to know this man. Adam rested a hand on Davey’s hip and idly rubbed at the prominent line of bone.  
  
“Thank you,” Adam said softly, a world of meaning in those two words.  
  
It had been too long since Adam had seemed so utterly content. Davey smiled and covered Adam’s hand with his own. He needed to encourage this, needed to tease. “This was all an elaborate plan, wasn’t it? Take me out… make me watch hot guys in tight pants… fuck up my diet… bring me home…” Davey stroked the pad of his thumb over Adam’s knuckle.  
  
Uncertainty melted out of Adam, and he gave Davey a blinding smile. “Of course.”  
  
Unhurriedly, Davey backed toward the bed, pulling Adam with him. He raised an eyebrow playfully. “So, you wanna find my strike zone?”  
  
Adam followed willingly. “I think I remember where it is.”

 

 


End file.
